


The Moon Shines Bright

by havisham



Category: An Evening's Entertainment - M. R. James
Genre: Backstory, Can't Spell Necromancer Without Romance, Crueltide, Demons, Don't Have to Know Canon, M/M, Master/Servant, Public Blow Jobs, Rituals, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28267950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: “The little folk in the village will tell you that the old man on the hill is no more than some pagan devil, but I would pay them no mind. Narrow-minded creatures they are, the lot of them. They look to Parson White for everything, for permission whether to sit or stand, or take a shit …”Mr. Davis and his young man worship the old man on the hill and reap the rewards therein.
Relationships: Mr. Davis/Mr. Davis’ Young Man (An Evening’s Entertainment)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 25
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The Moon Shines Bright

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ceci_n_est_pas_un_corbeau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceci_n_est_pas_un_corbeau/gifts).



The shape of the old man on the hill was only visible under certain conditions of light and in the winter, when the vegetation had died away. The best view of it came from the opposite hill, at dusk. In the gloaming light, the old man on the hill would reveal himself to any who cared to see him. 

Or so Mr. Davis said. Arthur tried to believe him, though Mr. Davis did say the most impossible of things. He had a way about him, of speaking in spells, almost. Hypnotic words would drip from his mouth and Arthur could only listen. 

Arthur did not even know how he had gotten into this predicament, shivering on a hillside next to a man who said he could see fairies. They’d met in the public house, in a market town whose name had faded from Arthur’s memories. He had arrived there in the late afternoon, his feet aching and his body sore. Mr. Davis had his back to him, a broad and powerful back. 

When he turned to look at Arthur, he had looked — thoughtful. Taking the measure of him. Arthur took the open seat beside him — he noticed immediately that though the man was well-mannered enough, everyone else in the room seemed to be edging away from him uneasily. 

Arthur observed him from the corner of his eye. The man was middle-aged, with a large and active frame, though softened in the middle. His hair was black, with streaks of grey at the temples, and his skin was browned from the sun. His face was animated and not at all ill-favored, though there was something odd about his eyes. They were more light-colored than one would expect from such a saturnine figure. When those eyes landed upon Arthur, they gave him a sort of uneasy feeling, even as they pulled him closer. 

The man leaned toward Arthur and said in a confidential tone, “Would you like to see something strange?”

“And what sort of strange thing would that be, sir?” Arthur asked him. He’d received his pint by that time and drank from it. The man watched him, avidly. 

“I’m looking to hire a man to help with my studies,” he said. He held out his hand. “My name’s John Davis.” 

Mr. Davis did not strike him as the type of man who was prone to studying. Arthur had seen university men before, spindly creatures with pointy noses perpetually stuck in a book. Mr. Davis did not seem like a reader. But Arthur was soon proven wrong in that. Mr. Davis had convinced him of his rightness for the job, and the next day, Arthur had followed Mr. Davis back home to assist him with his studies. 

Except they had not gone home — which was a comfortable cottage at the end of the lane, each side of which was bracketed by gooseberry and blackberry bushes — but rather, Mr. Davis had brought Arthur to come see the old man on the hill. 

It was a queer sight, no doubt about that. A figure of incredible thinness and frailty that stood out in the dying grass. It was either stooped by age or in some spasm of pain. There was something next to him, a mark that could be either a bird or a flying insect.

It was unlike any other chalk giant Arthur had seen on his journeys; most of those were bluff, strong symbols, stiff cocks and all, and those were accepted by their communities with a snigger or two, or protected by the recognition of their presumed age. 

Mr. Davis said the old man on the hill was very old indeed, far older than the Romans, built by the same people who had raised the barrow nearby.

“I thought the Fair Folk built those,” Arthur said. He frowned, feeling foolish. He did not want Mr. Davis to think that he was feeble-minded and send him away. But instead of scoffing at him, Mr. Davis gave a sharp nod. 

“They are the people who came _before_ ,” Mr. Davis said eagerly. “Whether they were the Fair Folk of nursery rhymes or no, remains to be seen. But I would not discount the legends, lad. Indeed, I would not. My studies have brought me to the conclusion that there are many secret stories that none yet living may share.” 

Arthur nodded at that, for want of anything else to say. Mr. Davis mused for a moment before he went on. “The little folk in the village will tell you that the old man on the hill is no more than some pagan devil, but I would pay them no mind. Narrow-minded creatures they are, the lot of them. They look to Parson White for everything, for permission whether to sit or stand, or take a shit …” 

He went on in that vein for some time as Arthur allowed his attention to wander. It seemed to him that some small cloud had detached itself from the bank above the old man on the hill, and was heading towards them. The shadow of the cloud seemed oddly like a man itself, laboring down the valley and up the hill, towards them. If Arthur concentrated, he could almost see — 

Mr. Davis rested a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “That’s enough for now. I tell you, Arthur, I’m a simple man. Dinner is always at 3 o’clock and no later. Will you go with me?” 

“Yes, sir,” Arthur replied. When he glanced back at the scene, both the cloud and the shadow had gone. 

*

In many ways, Mr. Davis proved a far easier master than Arthur had ever had. The day started after the break of dawn and breakfast was ample. Mr. Davis never raised his hand to Arthur and rarely raised his voice. He was a gentleman, as far as Arthur was concerned. 

Mr. Davis was not a farmer, for all that he was a tenant to the local squire. He was a man of means, though Arthur quickly learned that the source of Mr. Davis’ security was hotly debated in the town. No one told him this directly — working for Mr. Davis seemed to have made him a persona non grata in the town. Arthur didn’t care about the opinions of strangers — he would rather help his master in his mysterious work than break his back to enrich the careless gentry.

Often, Mr. Davis would require Arthur’s services after dark. They would roam the country together on dark business. Often, they would make a stop at the boneyard where Mr. Davis would have Arthur dig up the bodies of the recently deceased for parts that were essential, he said, to his studies. 

“There’s a reason you need these bones, sir?” Arthur asked one night after they had returned from one of their midnight forays. Mr. Davis was worrying over a pot of bones and strange herbs — truly the most hideous of broths — and his master looked up at him with a smile. 

“You don’t need to worry overmuch, Arthur. I won’t require you to drink it. It’s a recipe one of my colleagues gave me. I doubted the efficacy of his recipe, but I promised I would try it.” 

That there were more men like Mr. Davis, Arthur already knew. Sometimes in the middle of the night, he would be surprised to see hooded figures at their door; with hushed voices, they would converse with Mr. Davis and give him certain ingredients for his experiences, as well as receive the same from him. The only reason Arthur knew these visitors to be of flesh and bone was the footprints they left at the door. 

“But what does it do?” Arthur persisted in asking. 

“Why,” Mr. Davis said with a lift of his heavy brows, “it is to look at the dead, of course.”

Arthur could say no more about that, for Mr. Davis would not elaborate. He didn’t have to — the die was cast. It was either Mr. Davis was mad and Arthur would serve at his whims, or else his necromancy was in earnest. 

Either way, as Mr. Davis said, the rest would come on Midsummer Night, when they would take their brew to the barrow and see what there was to see.

So the brew bubbled on for another day and night, until Mr. Davis smothered the flames and set it aside to cool it. The smell of it was unbearable, inescapable in the cottage, and so Arthur took to sleeping out of doors, as he had done often enough before he came into Mr. Davis’ employ. In the soft summer night in the country, such a fate was not so bad. 

As Arthur settled down against an old oak tree, he thought he saw a shadow of a man coming through the hedgerows. Thinking it must be Mr. Davis, Arthur was about to call out to him, but something stopped his tongue. There was something wrong with the shadow. The man who cast it must have been emaciated, so thin was his shadow. His hand reached out — 

Arthur felt a hand on his shoulder and jumped. It was Mr. Davis, who had come around to the oak tree from the opposite side of the hedge. “What are you looking at?” 

“Something in the shadows, sir,” Arthur replied nervously.

Mr. Davis looked where Arthur pointed, a crease appearing in between his brows. After a moment, he shook his head. 

“There’s nothing there. Now, the brew’s done. I need your help to decant it.” 

Arthur went along with him willingly enough. The shadows could keep to themselves. 

They poured the thick and oily liquor into a glass jar about the size of Arthur’s fists. There was enough for five such spheres. Mr. Davis said that they would bring one up to the hill on Midsummer Night and _see what they could see._

*

Midsummer Night was exceptionally fine that year, with a bright silver moon making every blade of grass into a bent sickle. Arthur was drunk from the whisky Mr. Davis had given him, and it seemed that all was well with the world. It seemed to him that even the old man on the hill was disposed to look at them, his last two worshippers, with a kind eye. 

They had made a sort of camp at the foot of the old man, with the entrance to the barrow in sight. At midnight, Mr. Davis drew out his jar from his pocket and anointed it with a drop of his and Arthur’s blood. Then, he let the light of the moon fall upon it. 

Something curious happened as soon as the silver light hit the oily black of the liquor. Arthur could swear he saw figures inside of it. He looked at Mr. Davis, who looked at him. 

Silently, Mr. Davis held out the jar to him. Arthur took it and put it to his eye. Before him was a scene of almost indescribable wildness. Throngs of people went to and fro, their naked skin glistening in the moonlight. They had all gathered in front of the barrow, and before them there was a figure of a man, his eyes covered and his hands and legs bound to a low stone table. 

Arthur pulled his eye away from the jar and looked at the barrow. It was empty, save for the slight wind that moved across the long grasses. He went back to the view of the past. 

A shadow fell across the bound figure — a tall and terrible figure, with a great stone knife lifted over his head. As soon as he had brought the knife down, Mr. Davis took back the jar.

He was breathing hard against Arthur, who was clinging to him like a vine. Arthur did not know which one of them started to laugh, but once one of them did, the other followed him soon after. They had done it. They had defied the laws of God and man and they had seen what they were not supposed to see. 

Mr. Davis embraced Arthur tight and kissed him. It was as if a fever had fallen upon them. Inspired by what they had seen, both of them stripped off their clothes and rutted against each other, not speaking except with excited gasps and whimpers. Mr. Davis’ cock, large and insistent, found itself in Arthur’s mouth in short order. His come, Arthur thought, must taste almost as sweet as the blood of those who had been sacrificed so long ago. 

It was over quickly. The moon hid itself in a bank of thick clouds and the vision in the sphere sputtered and died. When the moonlight returned, the sphere remained stubbornly dark. With a sigh, Mr. Davis unstoppered the sphere and poured out the liquor on the ground. The grass that it touched immediately died. 

As Mr. Davis dressed himself, he looked over to Arthur, who was still lying on the soft grass, panting as though he had run a mile. There was a look of sly satisfaction upon Mr. Davis’ face. “Well, Arthur,” he drawled. “Are you still with me, now that you have seen it?” 

Arthur reached out and took Mr. Davis’ hand and brushed his mouth against the knuckles, kissing them. “Show me more, sir,” he said, when he could. “I will learn whatever you teach me, for good or ill.” 

*

“Why have you let your ugly servant come to my office during the day?” demanded one of the leading antiquarian-cum-archaeologists in the county, who had thrown his black cloak off his head as soon as Arthur had opened the door to let him in. Mr. Richardson had made his reputation in discovering the most rare and priceless treasures from the distant past, but rarely needed to dirty his hands by digging. 

Arthur looked beyond Mr. Richardson’s shoulder and frowned. He had thought someone else had followed the other man’s steps, but he was wrong. The yard outside was empty, though a slight wind rustled the leaves of the blackberry bushes. He closed the door firmly, and locked it. 

Mr. Richardson strode into the room like he owned it, while Mr. Davis, who had been reading by the fire and taking notes on his lap desk, did not look up from the page. 

“Well, Davis?” Mr. Richardson demanded. “What have you got to say for yourself?” 

“It is unkind to call Arthur ugly, for only doing his duty. I’m sure it was just an oversight on your part, sir, but I have not yet received the payment from last month’s delivery.” 

“There’s plenty of others who’d want master’s expertise, if you don’t wish to pay,” Arthur piped up. Then, belatedly, he added, “Sir.” 

Mr. Richardson shot him a venomous glance before he turned his attention back to Mr. Davis. “I would watch out, if I were you, Davis, given where you live. They dunked a witch here only a few years ago.” 

Mr. Davis put down his book and looked at him. “I know how to swim.” He looked over to Arthur and asked him if he could.

“I can paddle,” Arthur assured him. Mr. Davis laughed, but Mr. Richardson found no humor in it. 

He took his leave then but sent his remittances soon enough. Mr. Davis continued to provide his discoveries to interested parties — and his way of life remained as comfortable as before.

*

Of all the people in the village, it was only the squire who had Mr. Davis’ respect, though he was entirely ignorant of all that was going on around him. As the years went on, both Mr. Davis and Arthur enjoyed the gentle sport of baiting the squire, as good-natured as he was. 

They would talk to him awhile, making oblique references to their activity, while the squire’s broad and open face showed more and more confusion. He knew not how right he was when he said, “Worshipped? Well, I dare say they worshipped the old man on the hill."

Mr. Davis and Arthur exchanged delighted glances, and Arthur was glad that his careless words earlier had been forgiven. 

It was then the squire’s wife came upon them and called for her husband to come back into the house on some pretext. The squire gave them a civil farewell, but his wife’s cold eyes followed the two of them away. 

“If we could only liberate the squire, sir,” Arthur said with a smile. Mr. Davis leaned against him for a moment. 

“No,” he said at last. “The squire’s a man who can’t see what’s in front of his face. We are better off without him.”

“At least he doesn’t mind everything the way that Parson White does,” Arthur said. “Now that man will never rest until he’s thrown our bodies into a ravine or some like that.”

“Still your tongue, Arthur,” said Mr. Davis, his voice low. He seemed distracted as he was speaking. “You don’t know who could be listening.” 

Arthur, much chastened, followed him back to the cottage. Their work continued apace.

*

Years passed thus, until another Midsummer Night. Mr. Davis and Arthur had long prepared to do the ancient ritual that they had oft witnessed upon the hill. At first, it seemed to be going well — they anointed themselves with a unguent of herbs and donned their robes, the moon was bright against the sky and there was no hint of rain. The ritual would work. It must work. Mr. Davis had told Arthur there was no reason to doubt it. 

The cottage was filled with many people, both living and dead. Arthur, who had been feeling queer since the ritual started, took up the stone knife that they had found in the barrow long ago -- such a thick and powerful thing. He felt triumphant, even as terror ate at his heart. The shadows whirled around him and deepened. 

He was powerful, he was the one with the knife. Mr. Davis was on the table, his eyes covered and his hands and feet bound. But Arthur was free. Or was he? Even as he felt exultant, he felt another hand on his own, guiding him forward. He cut and cut. There were other voices calling to him, other eyes watching. He broke away for a moment and kissed Mr. Davis’ mouth and tasted the blood on it. Despite his confident smile, Mr. Davis had bitten deep into his tongue.

“Forgive me, John,” Arthur said as he lifted the knife. 

Mr. Davis said nothing. His heart had stopped beating, even as Arthur watched it shudder one last time. 

*

It was the last time he would walk these roads again, always towards the old man on the hill. He was not alone, though if some early riser should see him, they would see only the figure of a man staggering about. But Arthur was not alone. He would never be again. Throatless voices chanted his name until it grew lost and blurred. Fingerless hands scratched at his skin. They led him on mercilessly. 

And in front of him — ever in front now — was the shadow of the old man on the hill. 

*

Many, many years later, he spied her, the squire’s daughter, dallying with her lover in the ruins of the old cottage that no one ever dared visit. The two were young and careless. The whole world was theirs to rule, and no one, not the living or the dead, could deny them. Or so they thought. 

He knew better, even if he no longer knew his own name. He hated them, even as he envied the living pulse of their bodies, the pink flush on their youthful faces. A great stinging fly zipped toward them and burrowed itself into the girl’s tousled brown curls, as close as a lover’s hand. 

She shrieked, feeling its sting, and begged her lover to take it off her. But it was too late; the poison was in her. It would do its work, he knew. She would survive it, perhaps, but would look at the world differently afterwards. 

And the thing that used to be Arthur smiled. He was satisfied. His laugh echoed weirdly through the woods. Under many layers of dirt and stone, broken branches and debris of many years, his bones, long mingled with another’s, shook in mirth. 

**Author's Note:**

> Mr. Davis' colleague is of course the necromancer from M.R. James' [A View From the Hill](https://gutenberg.ca/ebooks/james-viewfromahill/james-viewfromahill-00-h.html). The five jars are from, you guessed it, "The Five Jars." 
> 
> I really, really enjoy the thought that many of the chalk figures in the UK are not exactly ancient. But the old man on the hill is, of course, very ancient.
> 
> Title inspired [by this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gWfc56ZmuVc). 
> 
> Thanks to my beta, El!


End file.
